They'd only just left the mob behind when they ran into Giovanni, heading determinedly up the street.

"I told you to stay there," Edmond snapped.

Giovanni gave him a hard look. "Yes, I know, you're the vampire and I'm only human, but I'm not going to stand around while the woman I love is in danger."

"Very noble, I'm sure."

"Enough," Ysanne said, shooting Edmond a hard look. "Let's go."

They didn't get far.

As they rounded a corner, they almost ran into two women in ragged dresses, reaffixing their tricolour cockades.

Ysanne never knew if the women recognised her as one of the nobility, or if they recognised Edmond as having escaped the guillotine earlier, or if something else betrayed them, but as they stood there, temporarily frozen, the taller woman let out a piercing howl, summoning the mob to her.

Ysanne seized Giovanni's hand and fled.

It never occurred to her that they wouldn't make it out of the city.

All those times she'd reminded Giovanni that being a vampire wouldn't necessarily save her from the mob if they ever did come for her, and yet when it finally happened, she didn't really imagine they'd be caught. She had become used to her strength and speed, relying on them to get her out of potential trouble.

But the mob that had burned Ysanne's house wasn't the only one stalking the streets that night.

They were forced to veer off course when they saw people approaching, and race down a narrow alley before emerging onto a wide thoroughfare. Ysanne knew this city like the back of her hand, but somehow, in the confusion and fear, they took a wrong turn and ended up by the Palais-Royal.

Once this had been a bright hub of activity and entertainment – painted whores and acrobats and jugglers and snake-charmers and puppeteers, where anyone could buy anything. Now it was a home to a very different kind of entertainment. A huge bonfire blazed in the grounds, while men and women decked out in the colours of the revolution danced around it, cheering. Every now and then, they would throw something into the fire.

Bodies, Ysanne realised.

A stack of bodies lay nearby, bloodied and brutalised. Some of them were too small to be adults.

"Mon Dieu," Edmond breathed.

They should have kept running. Neither Edmond or Ysanne were new to the atrocities that human beings could inflict upon each other, but Paris was dear to them both and the sight of it plunged into this hell, the sight of all those stacked bodies, the vile stench of rotten blood that they could not ever get away from, it rooted them to the spot for those few fatal moments.

That was when the mob caught up.

A club glanced off Ysanne's shoulder, and she swung around, punching with the motion and broke her attacker's jaw. But ten more took his place, armed with clubs and cudgels and knives and hate. Ysanne didn't think she had ever seen such hate.

It took ordinary people and twisted them, into something beyond logic, beyond reason, and far beyond mercy. They were here to kill.

Hands twisted into claws tore at her skin, her hair, her clothes, and though none of them could match her in strength, there were just so many of them. And she had Giovanni to consider – dear Giovanni who didn't have vampire strength and couldn't defend himself against this attack.

Ysanne killed two men by smashing their heads together and ripped out a third man's throat, showering the mob with blood, but no one seemed to care.

Giovanni had been knocked to the ground, frantically trying to shield his head with his hands, and Ysanne fought her way over to him, leaving bodies in her wake. She didn't care how many she had to kill; she would not let them have the man she loved.

But the commotion in the street drew the attention of the crowd at the Palais-Royal, and they charged away from the bonfire and the grisly stacks of the dead, eager for fresh blood.

Edmond grabbed Ysanne's shoulder. Blood streamed down his face from a cut on his forehead. "They'll tear us apart," he cried.

Desperately, Ysanne cast about. The crowd was too thick even for a vampire to clear in a single jump, and many of the crowd from the Palais-Royal had come armed with sharpened pikes. Trying to leap free could see them impaled on those pikes.

"We'll fight our way through," she said, punching a woman and caving in her cheekbone.

She hauled Giovanni to her feet and, despite his protests, threw him over her shoulder. If they'd stayed ahead of the mob, they might still have been able to outrun them, but fighting their way clear of hundreds and hundreds of blood-crazed revolutionaries was another matter, and Ysanne was hampered with trying to keep Giovanni safe.

A blade glanced off her hip, and blood soaked into her muslin dress. Another slashed along her bicep. With a snarl, she snatched a pike from someone's hand and swung it in a wide arc, cracking limbs and skulls.

But they just kept coming.

Edmond was ahead of her, forging a bloody path to the empty street that was so close and yet so far, and she kept her eyes on his sweep of black hair. They couldn't become separated.

A rock glanced off the back of her head, and Ysanne stumbled. She tried to keep hold of Giovanni, but something heavy crashed against her temple, and the world blurred. She dropped Giovanni and fell to one knee, trying to paw blood out of her eyes.

The pike was still in her hand and she blindly lashed out, rewarded by a scream.

Ysanne climbed to her feet, blinking away the pain in her head.

Movement blurred – Giovanni throwing himself in front of her, and then he staggered, almost knocking her over. The hilt of a knife protruded from his shoulder.

It had been meant for her and he'd used his own body as a shield.

His eyes met hers, and she saw a terrible resolution there.

"Run," he said, and took the pike from her before she could stop him.

"Giovanni," she whispered.

Already his suit was black with blood, his eyes glazed with pain.

With a desperate roar, he swung the pike, driving the mob back, but not by much.

"Run."

"I'm not leaving you," Ysanne screamed.

He swung the pike again, creating a tiny pocket of space around them, and then he kissed her, brief and desperate, blood and sweat on his lips.

"I can't outrun them, belle morte. You can," he said, and pushed her away.

Hungry, angry hands reached for her, and Giovanni batted them away with the pike, but then a broken bottle sliced through the air and gouged across his ribs. He reeled, but didn't go under.

The mob closed around him, their focus moving from Ysanne to Giovanni, and he fought with everything he had.

An arm wrapped around Ysanne's waist, hoisting her off her feet and dragging her backwards. Edmond's bloodied face flashed above her.

"No," she gasped, fighting against him.

She was stronger than he was, but desperation gave him the edge he needed and he hauled her away from the crowd.

"Giovanni," she screamed.

Several faces turned in her direction. Light from the bonfire made their faces seem red, carving sinister hollows beneath their eyes, until they barely even looked human.

Giovanni lunged, stabbing a woman in the back, then he wrenched the pike free and slashed the sharpened tip across another woman's face, forcing the crowd's attention back to him and away from Ysanne.

"I love you," he shouted. "Run, my love, run."

He was giving his life so she could escape, but she wouldn't leave him, she wouldn't –

Ysanne saw the man come up behind him, saw the pike in his hands, the sick glee on his face, but when she tried to scream a warning, nothing came out.

The pike struck home, the bloodied tip emerging from Giovanni's chest. He swayed, still clinging to his own pike, still trying to fight as the life faded out of him, and his eyes met Ysanne's once more, then Edmond grabbed her again, lifting her into his arms and running, away from the crazed mob and the bonfire and the blood and the death and Giovanni's final stand.

Ysanne could easily have fought Edmond off, but when she tried, she found she had no strength left. It felt like being human, like everything had drained out of her, leaving her fragile, helpless.

Edmond tore through the streets of Paris like his feet had wings, until they paused to hide in a darkened alcove. Edmond kept tight hold of Ysanne, as if he was afraid she would run or collapse if he let her go. Then, after a few moments, they ran again, and they didn't stop, not until they were free of the city, and the stink of blood and death was replaced by grass and open countryside, and there was no one around who wanted them dead.

Edmond finally let Ysanne go, and she sank to the ground, staring at the shape of the city in the distance.

Edmond sat beside her, keeping some distance between them.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"I could have saved him," Ysanne whispered.

Edmond shook his head. "He gave his life so you could escape."

Ysanne rounded on him, rage boiling in her chest. Edmond had pulled her away; he had stopped her from going to Giovanni. Edmond looked back at her, and the steady sadness in his eyes suggested that he knew exactly what she was thinking.

Almost before she knew what she was doing, Ysanne wrapped her hands around his throat, her entire self consumed by the rage that burned hotter than any revolutionary bonfire, her fangs jutting out. Edmond didn't fight her, and as she looked down at him, as she saw the glitter of reddish tears in his eyes, that awful understanding of the pain she felt, the rage drained away and she collapsed. Edmond caught her, holding her against his chest as she wept.

"I should never have gone back for those fucking portraits," she said some time later, as they sat side by side beneath the shelter of a tree. The stars glittered like diamonds overhead.

"That wouldn't have made any difference. The mob would have burned you in your home. It wouldn't be the first time they'd done it," Edmond said.

Ysanne's hand stole to the pouch still hanging at her waist, her fingers tracing the outline of Giovanni's little portrait, now all she had left of him.

Had the artist ever made it out of the city?

Maybe he was dead too, just one more victim to the horror that Paris had become.

Her wounds were hurting, and the cut on Edmond's head still bled, but neither of them suggested hunting for food. Even vampires sometimes found they could not face any more blood.

"I'm sorry, Ysanne. I got to you as quickly as I could . . ." Edmond hung his head.

"How did you even know where I was?"

"I've been living in Paris for years. I've always known where you were," Edmond confessed, not looking at her.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Edmond pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. "I didn't want you to see what a bastard I'd become. You were happy with Giovanni, and I didn't want to ruin that."

"So you just avoided me all these years?"

Edmond was silent for a while, lifting his head and staring out into the night. "I thought it was for the best," he said at last. "I was drowning and I . . . I was afraid that if you knew, you would try to help me and I'd end up pulling you down too."

Tears spilled down his cheeks and he made no attempt to wipe them away.

And now Ysanne was drowning anyway, trying to keep her head above the wave of terrible grief that was still only gathering momentum. She slid her arm through Edmond's, clinging to him, anchoring herself so she didn't get swept away.

"I loved him," she whispered, and she no longer knew if the wetness on her face was blood or tears.

"Do you blame me? For pulling you away?" Edmond asked.

In those first moments after they had escaped the city, yes, she had. She'd wanted to claw out his eyes, snap his neck, tear the life from him the way that mob had torn the life from Giovanni.

But they had killed him, not Edmond. All he had done was make sure that Giovanni's ultimate sacrifice hadn't been in vain.

"I don't blame you," she said, and Edmond clutched her hand.

Maybe he needed her to anchor him too.

"He was a good man. He didn't deserve to die like that," she said, and then the tears came again.

She leaned against Edmond, and her dear winter boy held her tight as if he was literally holding her together, and maybe he was. Without him, Ysanne felt like the slightest wind would blow her to pieces and carry her off to the stars.

"We were going to leave Paris. I thought we had more time," she whispered. "Giovanni didn't want to go. He thought we could shelter from the storm and then carry on with our lives when the madness was over. Even once I persuaded him to leave, he thought we'd be able to return one day. He thought we'd be able to pick up our lives as if we'd never had to run."

"I do not believe the revolution will last forever," Edmond said.

Ysanne's jaw hardened. "Perhaps not, but . . . I will never set foot in Paris again."

Abruptly she stood up, dislodging Edmond's arm.

"Damn this country to hell," she snarled, clenching her fists until her nails dug into her palms. Her hands were sticky with blood.

Edmond stayed silent, looking up at her, all pale skin and dark hair and red, wet blood.

"Will you come with me?" Ysanne asked.

"Where?"

"I don't care." Ysanne shook her head. "I'm leaving France, and I don't want to come back. Not ever. This isn't my home anymore."

Edmond leaned his head against her knee. "I'll come with you, anywhere you wish to go."

"I love you," Ysanne whispered.

"I know," Edmond said.

It wasn't a romantic love, not anymore, and it never would be again. They had enjoyed their physical relationship while it lasted, but that fire had burned out, leaving nothing but ashes. But the other love between them, the one forged in a bitter winter so long ago, the fierce, deep bonds of friendship and understanding, that would never burn out.

Maybe one day they would separate again, pulled in different directions like they had been before, but Ysanne would always love him.

Her knees buckled and she sank back onto the ground, trying to stem a fresh wave of tears.

"How can he be gone?" she whispered. "How can I have all this strength and yet not be strong enough to save the man I love? How could I have let him slip through my fingers?"

"Because hate is stronger than we are," said Edmond bleakly.

Once Ysanne would have disagreed with that. Now it seemed to hit right in the hollowness of her broken heart.

Edmond stood up, pulling Ysanne with him. "If we're leaving, let's do it now."

At first, Ysanne wasn't sure she was strong enough. But with Edmond her arm, she focused on putting one foot in front of the other, slowly moving further and further away from the place where Giovanni had lost his life.

Paris had died to her tonight.

She'd meant what she told Edmond.

She would never, ever come back. 

2/2

On Friday, it's Ludovic's turn :)